


Catcher

by synchronik



Series: Not The Prettiest Game [10]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:43:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't occur to Ryan until he sees the line-up.  Batting eighth and catching.  Stewart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catcher

**Author's Note:**

> The game is real; everything else is fictional. OR IS IT? ...yes, yes it is.

It doesn't occur to Ryan until he sees the line-up. He runs his finger down the list--Polanco, McCutchen, Walker, as expected--and then he sees it. Batting eighth. Stewart.

Stewart.

They played the Pirates last year, and there was the Wild Card game, of course, but this is different. 

This time, he's on the mound.

* * *

He spent so much time wondering what it would be like to throw to Chris that he forgets he'll have to hit, too. He walks to the box slowly, no pressure, since there's two outs and no one on base. Chris is in front of the plate, giving signs to the outfield the orange stickers on his fingers like traffic lights. He says nothing as Ryan gets into the box. He's so close that Ryan can smell his gum, bubblemint, the only kind Chris likes.

After the first pitch, though, he forgets that Chris is who he is and focuses on his swing. 

At the top of the next inning, Chris is in the batter's box. His jawline looks weird, like he's shaved funny, and he's strangely twitchy, which Ryan doesn't remember from watching him on tv. 

On the second pitch, Stew offers at a drag bunt. Ryan blinks, shocked. A drag bunt in the third with no one on? Then, four pitches later, it's a come backer. Ryan doesn't allow himself to smile. 

It's a good thing, too, because the innings open up and the runs come down and the offense, usually so good this year about picking up the rotation, has an off night, and they lose. Ryan loses. 

He's toweling off in front of his locker when his phone buzzes. Chris.

>>meet me at the condo

Ryan sighs. For a second he considers telling Chris no, that he should stay at the team hotel and not come over. Ryan fucking hates losing and isn't in the mood, really, to deal with a Pittsburgh Pirate in his living room right now. 

But he does want to see Chris, who always makes him feel better, even if Chris gloats a little. 

>>20 min, he texts back.

* * *

The condo is dark when he pulls up, not even a car in front of his garage. And the door is locked.

"Chris?" Ryan calls, dumping his gear on the floor and shutting the door behind him. "Stew?"

There's a noise that Ryan can't identify, a scraping clicking noise that sounds like--

\--and then there's a man in the doorway to the living room, taller than Ryan, sharp-jawed even in the shadows, and--

\-- _cleats_ , the sound was cleats scraping on the tile floor--

\--and Chris materializes in front of him, Chris in his cleats, and his uniform, the grey blending in to the darkness of the room behind him, eyes glimmering in the light seeping in from the entrance way.

"Oh," Ryan sighs. This has always been a thought of his, lingering in the back of his mind. Chris in catcher's gear. He doesn't have the chest plate on, but he's wearing the rest of it, shin guards, arm bands, even his mask, up on the top of his helmet, like he's in between pitches. It's...he looks so hot...but Ryan doesn't want to play games. He wants a hug and a blowjob, maybe, and a night of sleep to help him forget. "This is really--"

"Take off that ugly fucking shirt," Chris says. 

"Chris, baby, I appreciate--"

Chris's hands are on him before he even sees them, pushing him back against the wall. Chris presses against him, groin to groin, his hands working the buttons of Ryan's red patterned shirt. "I said take this off," he mutters in Ryan's ear.

Ryan tips his head back and closes his eyes. His hands fall to Chris's hips, curling around his belt loops. Chris hasn't showered; he still smells of sweat and night air.

"Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you?" Chris growls. Ryan's shirt is open, now, and Chris's hands move between them, undoing his belt. "You're gonna beg for it, Vogelsong."

Maybe it's the use of his last name. Maybe it's the shitty game he just had, or the news today that Cain is going to start throwing off the mound. Or maybe it's just something in him, the same thing that brought him back from Japan, and a divorce, and a broken hand, and everything else he's had to fight for his entire life. Whatever it is, Ryan surges forward, knocking Chris back so hard his helmet flies off and goes spinning across the tile.

"Fuck you." 

Chris is shocked for a second--Ryan can see it on his face even in the dim light--but he squares his shoulders up. Catchers are peacemakers, Chris once told him, but they aren't cowards. "Come on then," Chris says. "Let's go."

Ryan's been compared to a bull on his pitching days, and he feels like one now, all flaring nostrils and hard cock. He backs Chris into the living room one step at a time. Near the edge of the couch, Chris stops, hands out like a wrestler. "Fuck you, Vogelsong," he says.

And it's on. Ryan is bigger, but Chris is strong, and taller in his cleats, and manages to get out of Ryan's grasp more than once. At one point, Ryan feels Chris's teeth on his neck, not entirely careful, and he wants to yell _"yes, do it"_ but he doesn't, and Chris twists away from him.

Finally, Ryan forces Chris to his knees, pins him, arm behind his back, kneeling at the edge of the couch, and now it's Ryan's turn to fumble with his pants. He grabs Chris's belt and yanks, exposing his ass, which is lifted helpfully by the white jock that he's wearing. "You want this?" he asks, yanking Chris back against his erection.

"Fuck you," Chris says. He squirms, but Ryan's grip on his wrist is firm.

"Say it." Ryan pulls him back again.

" _Fuck you,_ " Chris mutters.

"Fuck _you_ ," Ryan says, and releases Chris's wrist. He shoves Chris's jersey and his compression shirt up so that he can see Chris's back, the muscles that shift over his ribs, along his spine. His fingers creep along the tight elastic of the jock strap at his waist then down around Chris's strong thighs, pulling it away from his skin then letting it go, not snapping it, just reminding Chris that it's there. He leans forward over Chris's back and strokes up the front of Chris's thighs, trailing his fingertips lightly over the hair until he reaches Chris's cock, hard and jerking against the cotton. He barely touches it and Chris groans.

"You thought you were gonna come in here and make me suck your cock?" Ryan asks. He runs his fingers over the jock strap to the tip of Chris's erection, then down again. "Big bad catcher." On "catcher" he squeezes Chris's cock once, firmly, then back to the light strokes. "You thought you were gonna make me beg?"

"Ryan," Chris moans. His head is down, but his hips are moving, squeezing Ryan's bare erection with his ass, trying to fuck him.

"You think you can come into my house and _make me beg_?" Ryan asks. He slides his hand into the waistband of the jock strap and pulls it down just enough so that Chris's cock is free, but the elastic is still tight around Chris's thighs. Ryan shifts so that his erection slides above the elastic and between Chris's thighs, prodding his balls from the back. 

"Fuck, Ryan."

Ryan reaches down around Chris and rubs the head of his own dick with his fingers, and then Chris's hand is there, holding Ryan's erection firm against his body. God. Ryan makes a tent of his fingertips and closes it over the head of Chris's cock, keeping the pressure light but steady. "Ryan, ryan, c'mon," Chris pants. There is sweat in the small of his back, at the edge of his hairline, between his legs where Ryan's cock is pressed. 

"Beg for it," Ryan says. Chris's erection is slick with fluid, thrusting up into Ryan's loose grip. His movements are frantic, hot. 

"Ryan," Chris says, and for a second Ryan thinks that it won't happen, that Chris is going to come before Ryan can drive him to the brink. "Ryan, please," Chris says, his voice low. "Please, baby."

Ryan lifts his hand away from Chris's cock and leans over until his mouth is next to Chris's ear. Chris's hips are still moving like they're on autopilot; Ryan knows all of Chris's attention is on him. "Please what?" he whispers.

"Please, baby," Chris gasps. "Please. Please make me come."

Ryan closes his hand around Chris's wet cock and comes himself, splashing Chris's fingers and his own with semen. It feels like a waterfall. Chris takes a minute longer, repeating the word "please" over and over again like a mantra. 

Ryan collapses on top of him after, exhausted and embarrassed. Chris pants like a dog, his head down. "Fuck," he gasps after a minute. "Jesus."

"Yeah," Ryan says. He pulls away a bit, to the side. The coffee table has been knocked over in the scuffle, and the remote gapes open, one of its batteries missing, but nothing seems to be broken. 

"Fuck," Chris says again. He pushes himself back, so he's resting on his knees, sitting on his heels, just like he's done in a game a thousand times, only his ass is bare and Ryan can make out the shape of his soft cock above the elastic of his jock. Ryan feels his own dick twitch. Then, in one swift, practiced movement, Chris is on his feet, towering above Ryan, his shirt raked up and his pants down around his upper thighs. He looks like a dream, a filthy slutty dream that makes you wake up hard and panting. "You want water?" he asks. 

Ryan isn't sure what he answers, but Chris goes into the kitchen, the scrape of his cleats on the tile making it possible for Ryan to track his progress even after he closes his eyes.

They don't usually do stuff like this, and Ryan doesn't know what to say. Chris comes back, pants pulled up but not fastened, and hands Ryan a glass, then settles on the floor on the other side of him. "You're gonna have to get that couch cleaned," he says, half a smirk on his face.

He looks so perfect there, reclined against the couch, one arm propped on his knee, head back against the cushions, smiling, that Ryan is filled with despair. How is he so lucky? How is it possible that all of this is his?

Chris must sense the change in mood, because his smile fades. "Hey," he says. "Are you okay?"

Ryan turns his face into Chris's shoulder. Chris smells like sweat and ballpark dirt and sex. Ryan inhales it all and tries to hold it in. "I don't know," he says. 

Chris's chuckle makes his shoulder shake. "You're okay," he says. "I got you."

Ryan feels Chris's hand on his leg, squeezing, and he knows if he opens his eyes he'll see those orange stickers Chris puts on his fingernails so the pitcher can see the signs. They come in yellow, too, but Chris always picks orange.


End file.
